


Of Princes and Prophecies

by steepled_fingers



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 04:15:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2095392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steepled_fingers/pseuds/steepled_fingers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little knowledge can be a very dangerous thing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Princes and Prophecies

Lyanna

She is certain, in a way she had not been before that moment. As soon as she sees him across the great hall that night her heart wants to break in mourning for her youth. Her face turns ashen. Ben of all her family is the only one who sees, because nobody else is looking to find it.

Ben has always been the keeper of her secrets, as much as she has ever been the keeper of his.

_"What did you see?" She whispered with naive excitement in the darkness of the godswood before the dawn._

_He shook his head and could not reply, but his eyes when he looked up at her gave her a sense of foreboding._

Howland tries to capture her attention away from her reverie of half nostalgia, half melancholy. "What has happened to your cheer, Lyanna?"

"Suddenly, I am finding I have loss my sense of mirth, Howland." She nods discreetly towards Rhaegar Targaryen.

"I urge you to take some joy while there is still joy to be had, Lya. Or at least assume the attitude of it." Ben has a will of valyrian steel. The three of them cannot help turning again to regard Rhaegar and his lovely, fragile young wife sitting at the dais, murmuring contentedly to each other over the head of their obviously beloved daughter.

"He is the key." Howland says in an effort to firm her resolve.

"And I am the lock," Lyanna quips darkly with bitter resentment. Certainty had never made the truth any easier to bear.

Lyanna watches the rest of her family around her, merry to be together again, however briefly, even Ned wears his easy smile, while Brandon is laughing brightly as he takes a turn dancing with the beautiful and well-favoured Lady Ashara Dayne.

"And tomorrow?" Asked Ben.

"Everything is at the ready." She replies.

Robert Baratheon with his large hands, his broad shoulders and his charming smile, asks her to dance. She wants to choke on her own bile, the bitterness almost overwhelming her. She takes cold comfort knowing this is not so much to give up, she could never love him. She reminds herself sharply that he is not the kind of man who could keep to a marriage bed.

She smiles to him with some reserve, but accepts his hand to please her brother Ned, looking on with obvious hope in his eyes. His affection for Robert is the only thing that recommends the young Lord of the Storm Lands to her. She must be kind, if not for her own sake, then for Ned's. As they dance though, she feels herself tiring in the face of his attempts to draw her out, she finds herself gritting out common niceties. He is perplexed by her immunity to his heretofore unfailing charisma, and he leads her back to her place with her brothers and with some effort chooses to regard his betrothed as being delightfully wilful.

When Rhaegar plays his harp that night, Lyanna begins to weep softly, much to the perturbation of both her elder brothers, who have not seen her cry since she was a small child with a skinned knee.

Benjen, as ever, committed to their cause and their secrecy, pours wine on her head with a japing lilt to the cast of his expression that is entirely false. She cannot cry, she is Lyanna Stark, she has wolf-blood, she has the blood of the Night's King.

_"Blood will out, little Lya, no matter what you may intend." Nan had told her in years past. Nan had told her many things and she knew well enough to listen closely._

What will come of Rhaegar's blood, she wonders shuddering imperceptibly, will it be polluted with madness? His father had been thought of as good and kind and righteous once, now even the small folk whisper of 'Mad King Aerys' behind their hands.

_"What did you see?" Lyanna asks her brother, heart pounding in her chest because she knows she will believe him._

_"The Prince must be born, for the world will be alight with dragon fire. He must have ice in his veins and fire in his heart. A champion in the darkness." Ben speaks as if not with his own tongue, Lyanna both wants to recoil from him as well as hold her little brother closer and remind him that he is of this world still._

*

Rhaegar

His encounter with Lyanna Stark has strengthened his resolve to do his duty in the face of the happiness he must sacrifice. He had always known that the prophecy would demand everything of him and for much of his life he has been willing. However, zealotry does not sit well with him, as intimate as he has had to become with his own father's brand of faith.

How convincingly free and wild Lyanna seems, as he considers her among her Northern kinsman even now he cannot see the seams that he knows are there. Perhaps the facade was a real if long forgotten innocence from a time before. He jousts that day with a determination as grim as Lyanna Stark. His indomitable success is greeted with some mild astonishment that is politely smothered by rousing cheers. He does not dare suspect assistance or intervention, the promise must be real.

He is unsure he can give it until the wreath of blue roses lands in Lyanna's lap. It is a wreath, not a crown, and they both know this. He idly remembers a conversation he'd had with a Maester in Old Town. Blue roses for blood flow. When Rhaenys was born Elia had weakened so severely, his fear and helplessness led him to the Citadel to learn what he could about the healing arts. And even then, buried beneath his fear, he knew the thoughts lingered unacknowledged. _The dragon must have three heads. The Prince Who Was Promised must be born. The realm must be defended._

The silence of the crowd is oppressive, in the distance he can hear cheering at the melee. He pays none of it any mind. He cannot look at his beloved Elia. He can only look straight at Lyanna Stark's grey eyes, a promise has been given, a promised has been received.

End.


End file.
